


names, dentures, and two hard-earned euros

by hibouu



Series: Ye Olde Arthur 'Verse [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Friendship, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Humor, Mystery, POV Ariadne (Inception)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:41:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29759109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hibouu/pseuds/hibouu
Summary: Eames has a secret, Arthur has ill-fitting dentures, and Ariadne has a rapidly declining bank balance.--I recommend reading the first work in this series for context, but this can technically be read on its own.
Relationships: Ariadne & Eames (Inception), Ariadne & Yusuf (Inception), Arthur & Eames (Inception)
Series: Ye Olde Arthur 'Verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2187135
Comments: 4
Kudos: 3





	names, dentures, and two hard-earned euros

**Author's Note:**

> dedicated to the person who commented on my last old arthur fic abt how they would still like to see eames and arthur "snog until arthur's dentures fall out." unfortunately due to covid restrictions this was not possible.
> 
> also dedicated to my good friend who pretty much came up with the whole idea. love u man
> 
> not beta'd so feel free to point out anything weird. title is riffing off lock, stock, and two smoking barrels bc trying to title this fic has been a nightmare

Ariadne has been watching a certain blood vessel in Eames' forehead expand and throb with barely contained rage for the better part of the last ten minutes. So far, it's more entertaining than sitting around watching Arthur finish whatever he's doing before he looks over her latest maze, so she counts this as a win.

"Greg," she says.  _ Throb. _

"Seamus."  _ Throb. _

"Try sticking to names that sound decent when you pair them with 'Eames'," Yusuf supplies. "I'm fairly sure that one's real."

Ariadne sends him a grin. "How about Donovan?"

"I swear to god," Eames says, the blood vessel looking about ready to pop, "if this continues, I'm bringing in a swear jar. And every time you guess my name wrong, it'll cost you a euro. Offend me with the guess and it costs two."

"And how do I trust that you'll tell me the truth when I do guess it, huh?"

"Let's just say I'll be held accountable." Eames looks to the side, tapping his leg. Unfortunately Ariadne can't remember which side the stupid little spy booklet she read religiously in third grade cited as being the side people looked to when lying. 

Arthur snorts, but it's unclear whether he's laughing or just making gross old man noises.

"Alright," Ariadne says. "You can have your stupid name jar. But I'm not reimbursing you for the past few guesses." Though she does have the terrible, sinking feeling that she will end up having to do just that.

Yusuf cracks a smile, always ready to relish someone else's discomfort. "A relief fund, if you will. To pay off our resident Rumpelstiltskin's gambling debts."

Eames doesn't move fast enough to punch Yusuf in the shoulder before Cobb returns, halfway through his speech about their next plans before he's even through the door.

+++

The Rumpelstiltskin Relief Fund is implemented the next morning, much to Ariadne's chagrin. 

"This feels like extortion," she says upon dropping the majority of her sandwich savings into what smells like a poorly sanitized pickle jar. It sits in a place of sick, twisted pride atop the table closest to the centre of the room, bearing a yellow sticky note label with its name. "I really want to make a joke about your spelling ability, Eames, but honestly 'Rumpelstiltskin' is bad enough of a word that I can't tell whether or not you got it right."

Eames quirks an eyebrow, but doesn't pause in his task of rubbing a small apple against his shirt. In fact, he makes it through the apple appraisal stage and a couple loud bites before levelling Ariadne with what could conceivably be called a glare, or at least an expression of mild ire. "How do you know anything about my spelling abilities?" A small piece of apple escapes his mouth and settles comfortably on his chin. "I've known you for all of a week, at most. Are you stalking me, Ariadne? Rifling through my papers in the wee hours, correcting my grammar?"

"I'm not an english major." 

"Could have fooled me with all those scarves of yours."

If Ariadne laughs at that, it's purely internal. Hopefully. "To answer your question," she says, feigning innocence, "Arthur told me your spelling bee story."

"That old codger just can't keep a bloody secret can he," Eames groans, eyes closing against the intensity of his lament. "Next thing I know, the geriatric arsehole will be printing my name, number, and address in the local paper."

"Arthur knows your name?" Oh, this is  _ news. _ The kind you find in a tabloid sidebar, sure, but still news. "That's what you meant about being held accountable! Oh my god."

"Arthur knows everything about everyone. A wonder, really, that he can even use Google at his age."

Yusuf, passing the two of them on his way to a whiteboard, decides to drop a veritable nuclear bomb by saying, "I've seen his computer screen, the man uses Bing." Then he walks away like that was not the most horrific thing Ariadne has heard all week. She takes a steadying breath, and by the stunned goldfish look on Eames' face he's trying to do the same.

"Well," she says eventually, "I've got a level to finish building. And, thanks to you, no cash for lunch."

"Pleasure doing business with you," Eames replies with an easy smile. She'll kill this man some day. She really will. But she can't resist testing a recent theory.

"Same to you, Ignacious...?"

"That'll be another two euros, love."

"Fuck. Also, you've got something on your chin."

Eames rubs a hand over his mouth and grins like the conman he is.

+++

"Bartholomew."

"What the fuck."

"Nothing that long," Yusuf chimes in. "The poor man should be able to spell his own name."

This time, Eames' fist connects with Yusuf's shoulder. The chemist just laughs.

"Edward."

"Marginally better, but no."

Ariadne eyes the jar, then considers her wallet. "Can I at least have the first letter? This is wildly unfair."

"This is a cutthroat business, Ariadne. No freebies."

"I bet it starts with R. For rude."

Arthur coughs from across the room. Interesting.

+++

Eames tosses his satchel onto a table and practically stalks over to Ariadne's workspace. "I'm tired of the prying, so I've decided to toss you a bone." 

The styrofoam model that has been giving Ariadne grief for the past hour crumples again, and she sighs like a woman with the weight of the world on her narrow shoulders. Which she isn't, of course. She's just a woman with the weight of Cobb's tenuous grasp on reality and the very important mission of exposing Eames' undoubtedly stupid given name on her narrow shoulders. Which, rounding up, is about the same. But she digresses.

"Oh yeah? Hit me."

Eames smiles. "My name is Thomas. A nice, normal name for a nice, slightly abnormal chap." He holds out a hand for a shake, as if in the promise of a truce, but Ariadne knows better than to trust any man who parts his hair the way this man does.

"Alright. I believe you."

"Really?"

"No."

+++

"Rupert."

"No."

"Reginald."

"No cigar."

"Romulus."

"Is it beyond the scope of your imagination that I might have a regular name?"

"...Rudolph."

"That one is costing you extra."

+++

It's the asscrack of Parisian dawn the next time Ariadne steps into the warehouse at Cobb's behest. Something about rain? A train? She hadn't really been listening on the phone, but apparently it was urgent. Arthur and Eames have already arrived and are tucking into a hearty breakfast of coffee (swamp sludge) and granola bars (cardboard) from the on-site stash. They haven't yet noticed Ariadne when she begins to catch snippets of their conversation.

"Are you sure you're alright, Arthur? It's not very nice of Cobb to have a nice old man like you shambling around at such an early hour."

"You watch your mouth, boy."

"Or what? You'll yell at me to get off your lawn?"

"One of these days, you'll need advice about car insurance, and I won't be around to help you. And then you'll see."

"I'm in my thirties, Arthur. Arguably, I know far too much about car insurance."

There's a wet sound, like popcorn being popped underwater. And then what can only be classified as a shriek.

"What the hell, mate, put those back in! Jesus Christ, how do you live with yourself, letting your dentures fall out every which way?"

Arthur growls, followed by a sound that Ariadne guesses is denture to gum contact. Damn. "This set fits all wrong, I need to make another appointment. Besides, I live with myself much like you learned to live with yourself, I imagine. With a name like Rutherford."

"Low fucking blow, old man."

_ Rutherford? _

It's far too early and Ariadne is far too tired for the stifling of any laughter, and she catches Eames' wide-eyed terror at her preliminary giggle just before the force of the laugh has her shutting her eyes. The creak of the warehouse door and a pair of voices announce the arrival of Cobb and Yusuf, which somehow pulls Eames' eyelids even further apart, until Ariadne almost begins to worry that his eyeballs might just roll right out of their sockets. This, of course, sets her laughing for another minute at least, and she thinks she hears the gravelly tones of Arthur's condescending chuckle joining in.

Rutherford.  _ Rutherford Eames. _ It's almost as bad as Rumpelstiltskin.

**Author's Note:**

> comments are always appreciated ;)


End file.
